Lucky Number Seven
by ArwenJaneLilyLyra
Summary: I am Hephaestion. My lucky number is seven. I love my king, but it seems he no longer loves me.


**Unfortunately, unlike crazymac, I am not a history buff ;) so I have made up some information to suit the story. I hope you don't mind :)**

**I am also aware that the seven deadly sins did not exist in the time of Hephaestion and Alexander (as far as we are aware seeing as they lived in BC) but the benefit of the doubt would also be nice, because I couldn't get rid of this idea, and fanfiction does tell say to 'Unleash Your Imagination' :)  
**

Lucky Number Seven

I was born on the seventh month. For seven years Alexander could not beat me in a wrestling match. I am seven months younger than Alexander. My father was one of seven.

I suppose you could say seven is my lucky number.

So, as I stand and watch the young Bagoas dance for his king, I realise it would only be fitting that I, in one way or another, am the encompassment of every one of the seven evil acts one can commit. The intense heat is causing the pressing bodies around me to grow sticky, the stench of desire and hunger reeking, as the performers continue their routines, arms and legs indistinguishable in the fast whipping movements of their dance.

I am Lust.

I watch as Alexander's eyes follow only one body, unaware that I am watching him. I watch the naked torso and shapely legs, eyes following elegant arms and smooth jaw line. I clench my fists, willing the desire to leave. I should not want him. If he is to flaunt himself so, why should I care him? He has no eyes for me anymore. Yet I only have eyes for him. I know I cannot stop how I feel.

I want him.

I am Sloth.

For all that I watch him and want him I do nothing. Once upon a time, a different Hephaestion would have told him that I do not like his actions, and that I think he should stop; that this is not the Alexander that I love. Instead I mourn and feel sorry for myself. It's no wonder Alexander has no cares for me anymore. I truly am pathetic. If I love him why am I not doing some thing about it? Bagoas draws closer to his king, and the adoration he receives is my answer.

I fear rejection.

I am Wrath.

I turn my gaze away from the sickening sight of the king making a greater fool of himself than usual. I can't bear to see my Alexander acting in such a way. But instead I catch the disapproving eye of Craterus, and anger is instilled, only enhancing that of my hatred for Bagoas. He smiles mockingly, and I nod in return, unable to force my lips into a friendly curve. His eyes are cold, colder than usual, and I recall the last argument between us. I feel nothing but primal urges to take my sword and stick it in his gut. But, of course, I hold back, for love of my king. He does not want us to fight. I must accept Alexander has respect and admiration for Craterus, even if I feel nought but loathing. But still I cannot avoid the truth.

I could kill him if I tried.

I am Gluttony.

This I take no blame for. It's more out of competition than anything else. As youngsters it was always a competition between myself and Alexander to fill our plates to the fullest and see who could devour the most the quickest: a child's way of proving who's more of a man. Even when I eat alone I still smile as I feel my stomach fill, and even now, when chance arises, I have been able to catch Alexander's eye over dinner, and together we smirk. Now I do it as a way to cling onto the past.

I want things back the way they were.

I am Pride.

I see their eyes. No, wait – I _feel_ their eyes. They want me to attack the boy. They want me to be provoked to the point of action. They see it as good sport. Let's taunt the king's most precious toy. They say that is all I am: a toy. I do not think they are true. I hope they are not true. I can feel my face is stained scarlet, and their occasional whispering is being caught by my ears in threads of voices. Tears burn in my eyes and I want nothing more than to scream at them to shut up. To make their lowly opinion of me disappear. Why can they not respect me anymore? Is the illusion of stature truly nonexistent now?

I want the respect I deserve.

I am Greed.

This is purely material. I already have more than most. I want it because it's just about all Alexander gives me these days: stuff. He gives me no love, no attention, no satisfaction. Not even his smiles are wasted on me anymore. So I relish in what he has given me, and take more and more. I wear lustrous clothes; sleep in a luxurious bed; wield a magnificent sword. All for me.

I covet it all.

I am Envy.

The most overpowering of all. I feel it burn my stomach with fire, scorch my throat and prickle my eyes until shameful tears, like those that plagued me on the day of Alexander's marriage, threaten to fall. I feel it when I look upon the arrogant, dangerously innocent face of Bagoas. He knows he holds what I want; what I had. I look to the ground, willing the sight of his lithe swirling body to leave my mind, but it stays, killing me inside my own head. The smell of sex and wantonness is reaching me from here, and I feel as if I am drowning in it. Each breath is laboured as I struggle to keep my knees from buckling.

I am consumed by resentment.

Laughter is ringing in my ears. They are telling Alexander – _my_ Alexander – to kiss him. And he does. Bile rises in my throat and everything is tinged with the crimson of blood and hatred and fear. My eyes close. Perhaps I am dying. I hope I am.

I am Hephaestion. My lucky number is seven. I love my king, but it seems he no longer loves me.


End file.
